“When will you be finished?” That question has plagued my entire college career.
I suppose that’s common for a first generation college student.
Unless you’ve walked down your college career in those shoes, you have not ideal what its like.
I walked into the world of the unknown. I didn’t know what I was doing or even what a “college hour” was. And aside from that, I had no one to turn to for guidance.
I love my family. I come from a strong Hispanic-Apache family with the best morals and hard-working, blue-collar ethics. All of the men in my family have never faltered to provide for their families, and we have a big family. However, with the big family came the notion that college wasn’t in the equation.
My grandfather (daddy’s side) left poorly paid jobs in Corpus Christi to find work in Houston. His first job was as an auto-mechanic, and he nearly had a break down upon earning his first $500 check. He never made that kind of money in Corpus. I know that’s chump change now, but this is the late ‘50s, early 1960s, and he already four mouths to feed. That didn’t include my grandma and himself.
My grandparents made sure that my father and uncles learned that you had to work for what you wanted, and you had better made sure it was what you wanted. My dad learned from his father and became a certified diesel mechanic. He can fix anything. But he’s also had to suffer with deplorable working conditions, jumping into the back of a big dump truck where rats, possums and all kinds of other vermin squirmed and squealed. He’s a hell of a worker and his boss would probably keel over if my dad said he found work elsewhere.
When I made the decision to attend college, aside from my grandparents and parents, most of the family had doubts about me being serious. They were already “so proud” that I finished high school without getting pregnant or walking across the stage with a bun in the oven. But I kept at it. I knew what I wanted.
The first day I went to register at community college, my father sat next to me in a computer lab and either flirted with other girls near me, or gripped because he couldn’t log on to a computer. It was funny and made me laugh, but at the same time, it left me alone to figure out the whole college registration thing for myself. I registered for 18 hours having no earthly idea of what I was doing. I don’t really remember that semester.
Its been that way ever since. My dad will ask about school and say, “Why isn’t it like high school?” or “Do you really need that class?”
After I moved to Texas State, it really became an issue. “Don’t take classes that you don’t need, I’m not made of money.” Yes father, because I want to make my senior year as complicated as I can. I’m already cramming because he wants me to be finished in two years as opposed to two and a half.
I’m not saying my father is horrible. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I’d be, really. However, I could do without the snippy comments (Love you, daddy).
I don’t know how meaningful my rambling is, but being a first generation college student means more than being the outcast of the family or, “the cousin who thinks their better than everyone.” It means you’ve achieved something that will result in a better life. Something that represents resistance to the norm, and a much more certain future.
